Evanesce, not a love story
by fenloride
Summary: Moriarty is engaged, but to what end? What is Sherlock doing in her apartment? Who wins, and who dies? Note: Sorry, I liked the idea of the older Professor Moriarty from the book, so I kept it. Not as OoC as it may seem-10 yr Holmes fan. Not slash.
1. Prologue Departure

Nothing should jeopardize his career.

Some things could, but they never materialize.

The night was mellow, and the wine dulled his senses more than it should have. He extended an arm to encircle the waist of the girl next to him, for the first time not caring what the gesture meant to anybody, including himself. He was not even surprised when she leaned softly—drunkenly—against him rather than pulling back in shock.

What a beautiful night. Anticipation throttled the air, and not a word was said. This was no silence, however, as breathing grew inevitably heavy, and he could almost hear the threads of her thoughts resonating concretely about him. Or perhaps he couldn't, anymore. The wind was salty and slightly bitter, and an overdose of it threatened to beat his head.

Finally he said, "Just say it."

She was not startled. "So you know."

"I do." Truly, after several years of proximity, there was no way against his knowing.

"You think I've got a chance?" Her eyes looked so innocent. It made such sense for her to be sent on such a mission.

"Yes." His smile was self-pitying.

She nearly fell off the seat, which she masked by getting up entirely. "Goodnight, sir."

Nothing should jeopardize his career.

Some things could, but they never materialized.


	2. Part I Return

Night, again.

It was a night bound to be swimming with that weakest part of her mind. Or not even her mind, as emotion is surely not a matter of the mind but of the heart. It was emotion that brought about her engagement, though her mind told her it was entirely wrong. Her mind didn't matter tonight, this lukewarm night, as she stood precariously under scalding water, as she dragged a beige towel haphazardly about her back, as she wrapped the towel around herself and stepped out of the vapor-obscured bathroom. The lucidity of the room outside was a bit of a shock, and she had to blink to be sure what she saw was real. She was more used to reality being distorted than not, and perhaps she preferred it that way.

But he was real.

Her hands began to tremble, which was unfortunate because the rest of her body was already shivering from the sudden temperature change. For a few seconds she struggled to keep the towel about her, before that necessity was eliminated as the man simply locked her in breathtaking embrace. Yes, quite literally breathtaking, and burning, burning so as to remove all the oxygen around her. He felt very hot against her bare flesh, but somehow he was only hot, in a way that kept the warmth part of the deal out of her reach. His muscles were hard with tension, and sheer breathlessness pressed her thoughts into incoherent urges of running away. After seven years apart, he only caused her the exact same unsettling reactions. But this was no longer a party of cool breezes and easy goodbyes. The air was calm, and he wasn't letting her leave again.

As cliché as it was, she did indeed believe that a century had passed before he let go. Her tenacious towel still hung about her body, the soft warrior that defied her greatest expectations. But she did not notice. Observation was the mind's responsibility.

"I was hoping your boyfriend might be back while I did that." His bland expression made him look entirely irrelevant to the words coming out of his mouth.

"Oh," she replied, more coolly than she thought possible, "yes, how very like you. I suppose you never did learn a good way to greet old friends."

"You're right. The last time I met the man, I shoved him off a cliff. Which made it really hard to find him again."

Suddenly she realized what he must have been thinking, and she was almost too embarrassed to tell him she meant herself. But she did so anyway. "You know, I'm really not flattered that when referring to friendship, you think of my fiancé before you ever think of me." It would likely have been best to stop at that. If he would continue to misunderstand, then let him. It wasn't the first time she got slammed with the conniving image. The image connoted intelligence, which was better than letting him know she was surprised.

...or was it? "Actually, how do you know him?"

He laughed at her. Of course he would. "You think you could really pull that one on me? After spying for him, after being his damned bedmate, you want to feign ignorance of the nature of my relationship with him? Not flattering? This is what's not flattering to my intelligence here."

"I'm sorry, did I miss something? Or are you two a pair of estranged lovers? Is he hiding that from me? Because although you were wrong about the bedmate part, tonight was going to be... the first time." She blanched at her own honesty. "And he never told me anything about you. Nor you about him, actually, though I had imagined some proximity between us back when we knew each other. So you two are quite even, and I assure you I'm quite ignorant."

At that he reacted with disbelief in his eyes, but the coldness of those eyes was unlike him. She hoped it was only an act, that he was holding back some other more gracious sentiment. But his next move revealed only a cold so barefaced that she could almost believe again that all his moves were calculated and mechanical. He brushed his lips against her moist forehead. "First time?" He smirked. "Why not have it from me, then, old friend, dear."

And then it was over.

"Sorry I've used you," whispered a voice behind her, very suddenly. For a conspirator, he was surely the worst whisperer she'd ever heard. Which clearly meant the audibility was intentional. She swiveled to look the graying latecomer in the eye.


	3. Part II Alive

"Hello," she said slowly, after a few minutes of silence. "Am I your bait of some sort, then? Didn't expect your prey to take so long, though, did you? It's a pity you didn't see he feels more for you than he ever did for me. Turns out I'm probably bait for both of you, pathetic excuse for a reunion though I am. Tell me, is this a love feud?"

"Sorry. I'm so sorry," replied the intruder, visibly touched, "but I only now realized what this is myself. It's no feud. It's… It's love. I love you. I did plan this, but I'm not going to let it continue. I'm not letting you get away from me. I just realized I can't."

_Oh, good acting, the hasty speech and the flustered look of coming to a stupid decision at the last minute. Oh, and the clichés! How naturally you delivered those! But you've put me at the center of some intricate plot against this man, and I know you—I know how many steps you put into a plan, so I'm not buying that this power of love thing never got into your head at any of those steps along the way…._ Thus were her thoughts, but she could not voice them, as the professor blocked the words with a long choking kiss, the kind he'd always let her pull away from before. _And this is to convince me I'm not being manipulated?_ She pitched her fists against him in a useless rainstorm.

The kiss did not end until even the professor himself was gasping for breath, by which point she was scarcely conscious. She was thankful he'd at least shoved her against a wall as a preliminary, so that she now had something to lean against as she tried to verbalize her earlier thoughts in ragged tones. Failing to do so, she remembered finally to find some clothes, dressing in the darkness of her closet as she listened to the voices outside.

"If this is how you treat your little lover, I'm sure you understand the way I'll treat you to be perfectly justified," said the first man, who had been silent since his opponent entered.

The professor laughed tremulously. "You know nearly as well as I do that it may be my dying kiss. I've got to get what I can. But my dear sir," he said turning to look at the man as earnestly as he could, "I can die entirely without your efforts." He paused, a bit dramatically, and was visibly disappointed when the younger man gave no sign of surprise.

"Parkinson's doesn't kill you," said the girl as she returned to the light, not looking at him.

"Oh, but brain cell death does, for a man like him, needing all his brainpower to survive on top of that network of cutthroats. That's why the crime rate's been particularly heinous these days. He's trying to get his last bites."

"I put the money into research. But I was going to say I'd much rather have control over my own life… and death. Turns out I can't live, so I... I thought I'd die on my own terms."

"You got rid of the scientists who failed you first, though," quipped the girl, "they're all over the telly these days."

"I see I wasn't wrong about your intelligence." The professor's gaze once more held its typical fondness for her, earlier fervor gone without a trace.

But she shrank back from him anyway, whether because she was repulsed or because she realized a further implication of his words. "You're dying on your own terms? Did you… poison yourself?" She noticed his pale face had gone a shade whiter as she spoke.

"I did." He was suddenly a very good whisperer.

"Let me guess, whatever you took was neutral in itself, but it was you probably matched it uniquely to my DNA so that if it is poisonous, then you really did yourself in when you were smothering me, because you showed no signs of weakening health in the first fifteen minutes you were here, and yet—" She stopped abruptly.

And yet by the time his second fifteen minutes came to an end, so did his life.

"That was clearly planned," said the man who was still alive.

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper. What the hell was he thinking, just dying in front of us? Master of crime, is he? Really good at hiding it, let me tell you..." She sniffed.

"No more of him. I was wrong. You probably didn't even know him seven years ago. What were you going to tell me on the night of January 6th, 2005?"

"Nothing," she replied. "Goodnight. But beware the traps outside. I think they're matched to your genes." It was time to walk away.

-end-

_I'd like to continue this, because I think there are lots of places to branch into with this plot._

_ But before I do that, it would be lovely if anyone could give me some comments and/or suggestions, because I'm really insecure about this whole thing, pseudo-romance and all. Is the girl annoying anyone, for example?_

_(Do keep in mind that it is only pseudo-romantic and nothing more, although I actually __think Holmes can be in love, even if I don't think he necessarily must love someone in order to be happy, or even to make this story work. And then again, maybe it doesn't work. As for the seemingly OoC parts in here, well, to be honest, I never intended this to be a Holmes story while I was writing those, and yet at the end I felt it had to be about him. That's the thing with us hard-core and long-term Holmesians... everything connects back to him.)_

_Oh, and the last chapter's just a translation to Chinese, so don't read that if you aren't interested in Chinese. XD_


	4. Chinese

For those interested (I doubt there are many) I've translated much of the story into Chinese as well.

楔子

这夜是温软绵长的，而这红酒似乎比平时更能磨平他锐利的神经。他伸出一条手臂，环住身边女孩的腰，这一次不再在乎这举动在任何人—包括他自己—眼里的意味。感到她不躲不闪，反而轻轻地、带着醉意地靠向他身上的时候，他甚至没有惊讶。

这夜晚多美。空气被剑弩拔弓的气氛狠狠掐着，不曾传播只字片语。然而这毕竟不是真正的寂静。首先那呼吸声，就难免沉重得可疑。他几乎能听见她脑海里的思绪纠结成丝，在他周围缠绕着，抖动着。抑或他不再拥有这个能力。风是微苦的，吹得他头疼。

终于他开口了："你就说吧。"

她毫不惊慌："那么，你知道了。"

"知道。"

"你觉得我有机会么？"她的眼睛真干净，不可思议的干净，果然适合做这种勾当。

"有。"他的笑容中透露出的，几乎是一种自怜，虽然充满了坚韧，充满了漫不在乎。

她闻声几乎从座位上跌落，于是索性起身。"晚安，先生。"

又是夜晚。

一个注定淹没的夜晚—淹没在她头脑最软弱的部分之中。当然，那根本不能叫做头脑，因为情绪显然与脑子无关。导致她那婚约的，是情感，而她的大脑却开始明白这样的婚姻会让她不得好死。

当然大脑是无足轻重的，在今晚，在这半冷不热的夜晚，当她站在热水的冲击下摇摇欲坠，当她漫不经心地用米色的浴巾擦拭着自己的背，当她披上浴巾，从水汽氤氲中怯生生地走出。外面房间的清晰显得刺眼，使她不得不眨了眨眼睛，才确定眼前的事物是真实存在的。或许比起正常的世界，她已经太习惯一种扭曲的表象，甚至开始喜欢上后者了。

不过他确实是真的。

她的手开始颤抖。这是一种不幸，因为她的整个身体已经在瑟瑟发抖了。她花了几秒试图让浴巾更牢固地包住自己的身躯，不过这一举动的必要性却被他一个拥抱迅速地消灭。那是一个令人窒息的拥抱，仿佛在燃烧，竟似是要将周围所有的氧气抽干。她裸露的皮肤所触之处都是绷紧的肌肉，烫烫的，不过也只有烫，而没有任何的温暖。单纯的窒息感压迫着她，使她脑海里充满了毫无章法的逃跑念头。七年之后再见面，他竟然仍是只能让她想跑。然而这次却不再是一个轻松的派对，没有凉凉的晚风和随意的道别。空气是凝固的。从他手中离开是不可能的。

虽然这说法很老套，不过她确实觉得他放开她之前已经过了一整个世纪。浴巾的顽强度超过了她最大胆的猜想，不过她没能注意到这柔软的战士。观察，是头脑的事。

"本希望教授能在刚才那会过来的。"他白水般的表情让他显得与自己口中迸出的字句毫无关系。

"哦，"她回答到，声音比她预想的要冷静许多。"是啊，多么典型的行为。你的确从没懂过如何跟老朋友打招呼。"

"没错。上次见到他的时候，我把他从悬崖推下去了，这使第二次找到他变得极其困难。"

她突然觉得他似乎误解了什么。挑明她说的是自己可能太尴尬了点，不过她还是做了："呀，一提起友情你就首先想到我的未婚夫而不是我，这可真打击人。"或许就此打住最好了，误解就误解吧，并不是第一次了。起码比表露出惊讶要好。

...嗯，真的比较好吗？"好吧，你是如何认识他的？"她终于忍不住问道。

他嘲笑了她。他当然只会嘲笑。"你真觉得这招会奏效？你给他做间谍，给他做床伴，竟还想假装不了解我跟他的关系？打击人么，我想你这才算是打击人吧。"

"哟，很抱歉，难道我错过了什么？还是说你们俩是一对离异的情侣？难道他在对我撒谎？要知道虽然我还没成为什么床伴，今晚确实是... 第一次。"她浑身一颤，发觉自己太诚实了。"反正他从没跟我提起你。当然你也没跟我提起他，尽管我曾经以为我们之间是有些默契的。所以你们二位算是扯平了，而我可真是一头雾水。"

对此他的眼睛里露出了不可置信，然而那眼里的冰冷却不像他。她希望那只是一种掩饰，背后还保留着一丝别的什么，然而他的下一个举动只显露出更多的冷，几乎使她再次相信他所有的举动都是精密而机械化的。他的唇轻轻摩挲过她湿润的额头。"第一次？"他讥笑着。"不如我来吧，亲爱的老朋友。"

然后一切都结束了。（未完）

My friend 李乖崖 adapted a piece of this into poetic form. I am deeply honoured:

流萤熏暖七夕夜，凤尾竹吟草虫鸣。绣榻半倚水阁后，玉盏轻叩见疏星。风来暗香拂衣透，双鬟小姬正微薰。红香莲脸青丝乱，玉钗半堕步摇颤。轻振长襟揽入怀，软玉温香轻呢喃。


End file.
